


Selective Detective

by curiouscorvid (prometheanTactician), DittyWrites



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Body Swap, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Murder, Noir AU, Private Investigators
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-28 06:30:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12600364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prometheanTactician/pseuds/curiouscorvid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DittyWrites/pseuds/DittyWrites
Summary: Edward Nygma is trying to catch a contract killer.The case gets a bit complicated when they start switching bodies.





	1. Noir Detective AU

**Author's Note:**

> Ditty and I are doing a fic challenge. Ten chapters, five each, two wildly different themes. We try to pull it back into our own court each chapter.
> 
> Ditty: I've never done anything like this and i'm absolutely buzzing to see how this turns out lmao! Probably a hot mess but we shall see xx

Crime was a given in Gotham City. It was a fact of life, and everyone who lived there ran the risk of falling victim to the criminal element every day. Even the people meant to uphold the law weren’t entirely clean. The most effective lawkeeper in the city was violent, masked vigilante dressed like a rodent. The city needed law. It needed order. It needed someone to put bad guys away, and for good.

Edward Nygma was not that person.

Despite being a private detective, he didn’t seem to care much about law or justice or innocents. He was in it for the investigation. He craved the stimuli of a good case, the thrill of solving something particularly difficult. Doing good just happened to be a side-effect of his lucrative hobby. Batman wasn’t the best detective in the city. Edward was, and without using the brutish methods the Bat employed.

He tried to stay away from the bigger players. People like the Penguin and Falconi, people who had grown confident in their field, didn’t bother with making things as hard to solve as Nygma would like. Additionally, getting in their way would invite much more trouble than he was willing to deal with. The fame would be glorious, he was sure, but the bullet holes would not.

The real gems were deeper in the shadows. People who kept themselves so hidden that the GCPD barely even had a file on them. They were usually contract killers, and lately Edward had turned his attention towards one in particular. The GCPD had him nicknamed as “The Boogeyman,” which Edward thought was absolutely stupid. Anyone who made it out of his crimes alive brought stories of a gangly, towering figure stepping from a thick orange fog, inducing panic and terror wherever he so wished.

Edward didn’t believe a word of it. Superstitious nonsense. The GCPD only had one page on him that wasn’t garbled witness accounts. Edward, on the other hand, had much more than that. The killer obviously used fear as a weapon. The “fog” reported at each scene was likely some sort of chemical. Edward had tried to run tests and break down what it was made of, but whatever residue was left had broken down to just about nothing by time he got to it.

But it was clearly a unique creation, meaning the killer had some sort of background in a scientific field. To target fear specifically would require at least a base understanding of human psychology. With that knowledge alone, he would be able to narrow down a list of suspects… if the man was on digital file at Gotham University. Edward had gotten into their system easily enough, set a search for someone with a background in psychology as well as chemistry or biochemistry. There was nothing. That provided three possibilities.

1\. He was self-taught  
2\. He had gone to another university  
3\. He had studied there and graduated before they began keeping digital files.

There was no way to confirm the first option, and to search every other university in America would be casting far too wide of a net. The third one, however, he could work with.

If the killer had a background in psychology, then it was possible they had worked at the Asylum. There was no guarantee, of course, but it was a lead worth following. If the hitman had graduated before the University had begun keeping digital records, then it was likely they’d taken a job at Arkham. There weren’t any other places for someone with a background in psychology, aside from opening a private practice, and Arkham had been keeping their records digitally for decades.

So Edward tried it. It was his only lead and he had to take it. The killer left no other evidence, the chemical he used rendering any fingerprints or DNA absolutely useless. So Edward hacked the Asylum’s network and searched among their doctors. No one current, but there was a past employee who was listed as having a PhD in psychology as well as a masters in biochemistry. Taught as a professor of psychology at the University until being terminated for what was listed as “professional differences.” Those were very likely his words. He’d been terminated from the Asylum as well, years ago, for reasons only listed as “inappropriate workplace conduct.”

Now, there was something interesting. It required more digging, certainly, particularly some footwork. He would head over to Arkham and ask around among the doctors. They were sure to remember him, if he’d done something horrible enough to get fired for it despite his significant credentials. Or at least, Edward hoped they remembered him. If they didn’t, then he’d hit a brick wall in his investigation. He’d think his way around it eventually, of course, but it was sure to be frustrating.

\----

The man writhed pathetically on the floor of his studio apartment. He was crying, wailing, screaming so loudly that Jonathan was sure the neighbours must have called the police. Or perhaps not. People tended to become sickeningly numb to crime in Gotham, but that worked just fine for Jon. Unless he heard sirens or was otherwise disturbed, he could sit leisurely on the man’s couch and take his notes, conducting careful observation.

Experiment #247  
Mr. R.J. Lyons  
Formula 8B, Moderate Dosage  
Note: Subject was already in a state of panic when the toxin was introduced. Could alter results. Further tests required.  
The newest formula has provoked a reaction from Mr. Lyons (hereon referred to as ‘the subject’) of a much more violent nature than previous formulas. Without further testing, it is unclear whether that is an effect of the formula or simply something specific to the subject. Likely both, considering his history of aggression. (See Subject Notes #342)  
The newest toxin seems to induce increasingly vivid hallucinations when compared to previous formula’s, but without the subject’s cooperation and input this is merely an educated guess based on observation. To be studied further at a later date.  
Typical symptoms of fear present. Dilated eyes, heightened breathing and heart rate, increased perspiration, violent trembling to the point of near-immobility.

Jonathan stopped writing when he heard sirens, scowling at the interruption. It was absolutely possible that they were chasing someone else and not headed towards him- after all, there were always police sirens in Gotham- but he hadn’t gotten as far as he had by taking chances. He was just about to head back out of the window when he heard Mr. Lyons choke behind him. He paused, then headed back to check his pulse. Dead. Jonathan checked his pocket watch and made a quick note.

Death in approximately 4.35 minutes.  
A new record.  
This strain seems particularly aggressive. Pros and cons of subtlety vs. aggression will be evaluated at a later date.

With that, he slipped his notebook back into his work out old satchel and pulled his mask back on.

By time the police kicked the door in, Jonathan Crane was long gone.

\----

“Crane? Oh yeah, he was a real nutcase. Should’ve been a patient rather than a doctor, if you ask me.”

“What makes you say that?” Edward didn’t need to take notes. He would remember the whole interaction word for word at a later date. The doctor he was talking to shook her head as if in disbelief of the things Dr. Crane had done.

“He was an asshole. Thought he was smarter than everyone else, thought he was above all of it. I’m not supposed to discuss this, but he was using our patience as test subjects for his weird…” She struggled to think of the words for it. “Fear fetish!”

“I beg your pardon,” Edward laughed. “I believe I misheard you. Did you say he had a ‘fear fetish?’”

“I don’t know what else to call it. He wrote a brilliant thesis on the phenomena of fear, but in practice he was… disturbingly obsessed with it. He was always zeroing in on what made people uncomfortable. It was like freaking us out was his favorite hobby.” She shivered at the memory. “He got along fine with Dr. Quinzel, but that’s no surprise. We all know how she turned out. Seems she has an affinity for that sort of lunatic.” She sounded sad when she spoke about Harley Quinn, as opposed to the disdain with which she spoke about Jonathan Crane.

It sounded like Jonathan was his prime suspect. An obsession with inspiring fear in others, the background to experiment with it effectively, and the motivation to turn to crime for his work. Edward couldn’t stop grinning. He loved it when he was right.

“Thank you very much, doctor. Enjoy the rest of your shift.”

Back home, he had a wall where he plotted whatever case he was focused on. Currently, that was the Crane case. He added the picture he’d printed of Jonathan’s I.D photo, and the documents he’d acquired while hacking Arkham’s network. He wrote information he’d received verbally on little notepads and stuck them in their appropriate places. None of it was for memory. He didn’t need help remembering anything. But sometimes seeing the way things connected could lead to a revelation.

As it was, he found himself rather pleased with the progress he’d made that day. He had an entire wall full of information on this case.

The GCPD had one page.

Edward really could not stop smiling.


	2. Body Swap

 

Of the many benefits which his obsessive work schedule provided him, the damage inflicted upon his sleep schedule was not among them and, awaking at his desk, a groan pulled from Edwards' lips as his neck protested the unfortunate position.

Eyes closed and cheek pressed against the hard wood, his hand wrapped itself around the offended area as he gently prodded the aching flesh.

Mentally chastising himself, he absent-mindedly massaged the area fighting to remember the last thing he had been doing before falling into sleep. It took a moment but the answer was quick to return to him.

The 'Boogeyman' case.

The murders committed, or so he highly suspected, by the illustrious Jonathan Crane; ex-professor and potential fear aficionado.

Today he would dig more into the mans' past. Previous students, ex-colleagues and old flames -if any existed- were easy enough to hunt down and they could provide him with a greater insight into his suspect. The little information which he had been able to procure, information which he was still pleased to know vastly outshone that of the GCPD, had indicated that he was a private man with few personal ties.

But if Edwards' experience had told him anything, it was that people always possessed ties in the most extraordinary of ways.

Having sorted his thoughts for the day ahead, Edward cracked one eye open.

And promptly shot up in his seat.

The sudden movement caused the pain in his neck to scream in protest but aside from a wince he was able to ignore it as a mild panic took root in his gut.

This was not his desk.

This was NOT his office.

Head swinging from side-to-side his sharp eyes darted around the unpleasant space as he sought out a possible answer to his predicament. Kidnap? He doubted it. His mind was clear and possessed none of the sluggishness or pain which would suggest he had been drugged while asleep. Memory loss? Potentially, however he was unwilling to face the wider implications it suggested.

Now seated upright, he surveyed the area. Aside from the thin, empty desk which he was positioned at, there was virtually nothing else in the room. It was cheap and the faintest stench of damp emitting from one corner caused his nose to crinkle. A couch, the most disgusting shade of orange he had ever laid eyes on, was the only other furniture in the room. No bed.

The panic in his gut lessened a touch as his eyes zeroed in on the only door wthin the room, aside from the one which was opened into what looked like a bathroom. The small lock which lay about two-thirds of the way up the stained wood was the epitome of poor quality. Even if he were locked in here, it would not take more than a moment to break such a pathetic thing.

But that still did not answer the question of how he had gotten here.

“What have you gotten yourself into now, Edward...” He muttered to himself but as the words resonated in his ears, an almost comical feeling of confusion overtook him.

That was not his voice.

“Hello?” He tested again, hesitantly.

His showman tones, the result of many years of elocution and projection, had disappeared. The clear, almost high syllables replaced with something much deeper which possessed a hoarseness he had never been able to achieve without at least half a bottle of whiskey in his system.

Not only that but they were...accented? It was odd, barely noticeable to the untrained ear, but Edward was no untrained fool and he could pick up the small hints of a drawl which had punctured the few words he had spoken.

Feeling thoroughly unsettled, he clicked his teeth together and the simple movement created a new wave of horror through him.

These were not his teeth.

Running his tongue along the molars and canines, he was unable to find any of the familiar grooves and edges of his dental work and fear, primal in its intensity, hit him as his imagination ran wild with various thoughts about what atrocities had been conducted against his perfect teeth.

Needing to know the extent of the damage, and what he was dealing with, he brought his hand up from its loose position by his side as he assessed the situation.

However, as his hand came into view before his eyes, he gasped sharply.

That was not his hand.

His slim digits had been elongated to the point where they looked brittle as twigs and the skin seemed thinner, with the veins and bones being more prominent than he would consider healthy. Wiggling them experimentally to make sure that they actually belonged to him, he felt his chest thud as the fingers copied his desires to perfection.

Breath coming in panicked gasps, Edward placed a hand over his heart as he stood, stumbling away from the chair as his entire body felt wrong to him.

Wrong.

It was all wrong.

The limbs were too gangly, the torso too long, and he could feel the extra inches of height forcing him to see the world from a slightly different angle. The feet were too big and he nearly tripped over his own extremities as he hobbled over to the woodworm-infested window. Gazing out, he was met by the the fading evening light and the sights of several local Gothamites hurrying to their homes, lest they be caught in the dark with the monsters.

Seeking out a landmark, his eyes settled on large neon sign which advertised the Thomas Elliott Memorial Hospital which was marked as being only two blocks away.

He was in West Gotham.

In a flat which was, he quickly calculated the height, four floors high and located two blocks from the hospital.

He knew where he was.

The knowledge did little to quell his fears though as he tore his hands from the windowsill and again brought them up to his sight.

This was still not his body.

Everything about it was foreign, from the mild aches and pains which assaulted him to the unnatural flexibility which he could sense pulsing through the limbs despite their current stiffness.

Despite his panic, rationality set in.

He knew where he was and what he needed to know now is what had happened to his physical state.

Striding towards the bathroom, the longer steps throwing him off-kilter as he moved, he flicked on the switch for the cheap bulb which passed for lighting in this hovel and closed his eyes as he turned to face the dirty mirror.

Edward took a calming breath to quell the hyperventilations which clawed at his lungs.

It was now or never.

Slamming open his eyes, he felt the world tilt around him as he stared into the mirror and was met with the reflection of the man whom had been occupying his thoughts as of late.

And the horrified expression of Jonathan Crane stared right back at him.

x-x-x-x-x

Elsewhere in Gotham, and in an office which was far more comfortable than the usual fare he was accustomed to, Jonathan Crane was already one step ahead in his state of unknown panic.

He had the fortune, or misfortune, to have been conscious when an odd sensation caused him to blackout for a moment and awaken on a foreign desk, trapped in a body which in no way belonged to him. It had been quite the experience and the raw terror which had gripped him as he went though each passing realisation had possessed a hint of irony as he was confronted by a fear similar to that he liked to bestow on others.

Rigid as steel, his hands were clamped to the edge of the expensive wooden desk with a vice-like grip as he struggled to calm his mind. He had been at his own desk, in the room which he had just rented in West Gotham to act as a hideout until the heat from his latest kill dissipated, when he had been...taken.

He was no longer in his own body.

The only explanation, the only rational thought which was bouncing around his mind, was that he had inadvertently dosed himself with his toxin.

At worst this was an extreme hallucination and at best the trauma had forced him to pass out and was simply lucid dreaming.

In that regard, it was preferable to his regular nightmares.

Shaking his head to dispel the thought, he could not dislodge the feeling that neither of his assessments were accurate.

The situation too _real_ to be fiction.

Either way, he kept his body still and his breathing as soft and even as possible to ensure that his toxin would not overwhelm him.

Better safe than dead.

Turning to survey the room around him in more detail, the first thing that assaulted his senses was the décor. It was very green. Mixed hues of lime, jade and emerald combined to give the area a series of earthy tones which should not work but did as they came together with an easy class. On a nearby coat-rack, a green bowler hat hung beside a matching suit jacket and a quick glance at his legs told him that he was wearing the remaining pieces of the ensemble.

This was his office.

Whomever he was.

Standing gingerly, his new physical state was difficult to adjust to. The lost height combined with the gained weight which had robbed him of his waif-like form also filled him with a foreign warmth which he was not accustomed to. A natural warmth which a well-kept body provided its owner without hesitation.

Jonathan winced as his shorter legs clomped along the carpeting as he staggered awkwardly around looking for something, anything, to help him.

He clattered to a halt however as his eyes zeroed in on the file which lay innocently on the floor, having been accidentally knocked from the desk in his initial panic, and he knelt to pick it up.

It had his name on it.

Flicking it open with fingers, fingers he blanched to realise were manicured, a vague sense of accomplishment seized him as he perused a well-documented history of his various kills. Police reports and witness statements were stapled together to provide a timeline which he was impressed to note had missed out very few incidents.

  


However, as the official documents ended, a series of small personal notes had been scrawled onto sheets of paper in an elegant script.

_Background of psychology? Likely._

_Biochemistry? Almost certain._

_A loner (clichéd). _

_Fear obsessed ('fetish' possible but witness seemed to possess a bias against Crane)_

Were amongst a few observations which his eyes flitted over as he continued to swim through this assessment of his self and his crimes.

He was being hunted.

And the methodical nature of this investigator, combined with the obvious intelligence which almost oozed from every word of the document, was enough to cause him a touch of concern.

This person was good.

But he was better.

Throwing the document back to the floor, Jonathan took a moment to steady himself as he considered his options. Even if this was just a toxin-induced hallucination, he would be remiss not to discover more about the situation at hand.

Palming the pockets of the emerald green trousers which clad his legs, a smirk tugged at his lips as they settled on a weight. The wallet reeked of expensive leather and as he snapped it open he could see the thin wad of cash within but it held no interest to him.

Pulling out the drivers licence his eyes darkened in satisfaction as he muttered the name.

“Edward Nygma.”

Momentarily thrown off by the changed timbre of his voice, he blinked away the surprise as his gaze narrowed again at the small picture which lay next to the name.

Nothing was unique about him, aside from perhaps the red hair which sat perfectly coiffed atop his head like a flame, and Jonathan could see that he was younger with only a few years separating them. Handsome features, particularly the eyes, and even through the stillness of the image Jonathan could detect a sense of arrogance in his choice of expression and stance.

Seeking out a reflective surface, a small vanity mirror caught his attention and, as he angled himself to peer into it from across the room, a flash of red hair confirmed his suspicions of this body and he returned to the wallet.

A handful of bank cards; all bearing the name 'Edward Nygma' were also present but what drew Jonathans' eye next was a trio of business cards which had been slotted together in one space within the wallet. Extracting one, he was met with

_**Edward Nygma: Private Investigator** _

Interesting.

A tug at his navel, like something physically wrenching his gut from within caused him to gasp in pain as a familiar darkness exploded behind his eyes and he became light-headed.

Gently prying his eyes open again, a wave of pure relief shot through him as he recognised the cheap, dank bathroom which he had paid a pittance for and he felt his knees go weak beneath him as the surprise of his return to normalcy threatened to floor him.

Dropping to the floor gently, his mind was in pieces as he struggled to comprehend what the hell had just happened to him.

Rationally, it could not have occurred.

“Edward Nygma.”

He tested the name in his own tones and found a stiff determination to uncover as much about the other man, if he even existed, as possible.

He could not have taken control of a different body, it was unthinkable, and yet he could not deny that it had felt real.

Had it been a dream?

A harbinger of ruin to come?

x-x-x-x-x

Across the city, back in his own body and stunned into uncharacteristic silence, Edward Nygma was having the exact same crisis of thought.

 


End file.
